Northern grinned hard, blood staining the white of his teeth. The light in his eyes gleamed—menacing, a little unhinged.
"Yes. I taste it well, Dante, and it's sweet. Just like the taste of your blood will be."
Dante stared at the boy before him, his gaze seemingly indifferent.
Even for him, it was a lot to process. He was clearly standing before someone who looked no older than twenty. He himself was thirty-five. Raizel was forty-two. The two of them had chased the fineness of swordsmanship since their youth. Of course, with Raizel's broken ability, he was never as enamored with the sword as Dante was.
Dante's own talent, however, could only shine through the mastery of an impenetrable combat style. So he began early—mastering the sword from a very young age.
And yet, not even he could boast of reaching this level by twenty. No, that had never been possible… at least, it shouldn't have been.
